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Journal Notes from the November 1998 Float to the Sea:
DAY 8
(Nov 12)
It was noon before I finally sent my
mail, and got supplies, and then packed up. Marlene and her seaworthy
poodle named "Coco" watched me pack. Two days before I watched
as Coco proudly rode the prow of the fishing skiff like a masthead as
Marlene and her husband Ricky scooted up through the harbor.
I
efficiently loaded the canoe, and was stepping back up on the barge to say
goodbye, when I slipped and made my first swim of the day - in the Yazoo
River. Now, people, you think the Mississippi smells foul when the water
is falling? Have you ever smelled the Yazoo in Vicksburg? Even the Shad
were seen flapping listlessly in the soup. Others weren't even flapping,
but lay belly up.
I wrestled myself up the edge of the barge like
a wet rat, sputtering, and quickly made my adieus. I felt rather foolish,
and wanted to be anywhere but there when I fell in. A stiff North wind
greeted me at Harbor's mouth. I slid into the channel, under the I-20
bridge, and promptly changed clothes en route. The Mississippi actually
smelled sweet compared to the Yazoo. I rinsed my soaking clothes out in
the Mississipp, and then set them to dry on the prow of the Water Pony.
I made sixty-five miles that day, my all-time record. At least
half of the day I was kicked back and going with the flow. Not bad for a
riverrat who is allergic to paddles. The reason for this distance was that
I didn't come to shore once the whole afternoon, and floated well into the
night. The conditions were ideal: calm weather and slight North breeze.
The air currents settled into the river and made it open up in sublime
mirror pools of black, and yellow (from distant city lights), rippling
wave lines emanating from unseen places. The voice of the river speaking
in the quiet of the evening. Owls were calling from the forests, and
coyotes hollering. Each time one howled, you could hear echoes from the
opposite shore. Shortly later, a clan from that side would respond with a
cataclysm of yips and yowls, and puppies joining in, and then silence. And
then another clan would answer further downstream. We humans aren't the
only ones who like to strut and show off their gorgeous voices.
I
thought I was going to be alone that night, but it turned out I wasn't the
only taking advantage of the beautiful fall weather: flocks of geese were
calling from above, first from one direction, and then the other. Every
time I came around a bend, it seems like another flock would pass over. I
never actually saw them in the sky, although at one point as I was coming
in to land for camp, a bat flew right above my head. At least, I think it
was bat. The barge traffic seemd to hold until camp, and then the tugboats
started grinding away and went on chugging and churning all night,
bringing grain downstream, and empties up. It never ceases to amaze me how
much corn and soy and wheat America produces, and lets roll down her
mighty river to the sea.
(Martin Lanneau of the Natchez First
National Bank graciously allowed to let me to use his computer and
internet connection for this dispatch. Thanks Martin!).
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